measi's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ritualistic instinct This entry is part of my monthly collaborative for PaganSpeak. This is August's submission, although I am a bit late... When exactly did I do my first ritual? It's a question that I could probably debate for hours, if not days. My rituals tend to be often undefined passages of time that really don't have a definite beginning or ending, but just a capturing of a moment... a relishing of sensation. I suppose it depends on who you talk to, actually... and whether we're talking first formal Wiccan ritual, or anything spiritual. If you asked my mother, my first nature-connection rituals would have been when I was four or five. We lived in a not-yet-developed section of Billings, Montana (I know... stop the "no... REALLY?!?" comments now) where there was a horse field at the end of the street. My mom would take me down there, and if the horses weren't right there, she'd let me go into the field. In late August/early September, the plains grasses are growing fairly high, and "wild wheat," as we nicknamed it, had seed stalks that whistled as the wind blew through them. I'd walk into the field and just let my hands run over the wheat grass with my eyes closed, listening to the wind whistle, and then when I started to get a tingly feeling in my toes and ears, open my eyes and watch the billows of air make patterns along the grass. Nothing "fancy," but it would make me both relaxed and excited at the same time. Arguments aside about how young I was, I do recognize now how I was connecting with the energies of the Earth. Kids do that instinctively, I think. But actively paying hommage to the Gods? No, I don't think so. I was just being one child out in the big world. By the time I was a teenager, though, the connection with the Divine was conscious. And again, while not a formalized ritual complete with altar and tools, my first personal connection with the Divine (at that point as a good Christian) still would have to be my first ritual. Anytime I would go skiing at Red Lodge Mountain near my hometown, I would make sure to take the chair lift that went up to the highest point possible on the mountain. I would stand at a lookout point, and gaze out at the world, admiring and feeling awe at the beautiful complexity below me. To my north and east were the beginning stretches of the Great Plains, checkerboarded with farmlands that were outlined by patches of snow, with a distant view of the Pryor Mountains where I knew bands of wild horses to run free. To my south was the vast stretches of Wyoming, speckled with dots of buffalo herds. To my west were the Rockies, awesome in their strength and quiet solitude. I'd say a prayer, not only to keep me safe for the day, but a thank you for being able to have this view, knowing that there were billions of people who would never have the same viewpoint and see the beauty that I did in the trees. Throughout the day, I'd often stop somewhere on the slopes and listen to the wind blowing through the lodgepole pines. There's a distinct sound of wind blowing through the northern Rockies-- a low rumble-whistle that shoots energy up the spine. While I don't know when exactly those rituals started, I've found since moving to the East Coast that I miss them terribly. While the formalized rituals that I perform for Sabbats and Esbats are moving and beautiful, it's the actual quiet connection with Nature that is the most meaningful, and that Montana wind kissing my face during quiet contemplation that I yearn to feel again. Bright Blessings, Mel. 10:55 a.m. - 5 September 2001 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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